Ch. 9: The Wild Man of Winsted
(Return to Arheled) Lara Midwinter saw the man in brown. She rushed to get permission to go on break and punch out, but by the time she had thrown on a coat and hurried out, he was gone. There had been someone with him, it looked like, but she couldn’t remember what he looked like or who it had been. “Shoot!” she fumed. There was nothing for it but to head back inside and fix up a free cheeseburger for break, and hopefully eat it in peace before Brandan noticed she was free and glued himself next to her. She had to work late tonight and it was bitterly cold out. Why it was below zero in the middle of February she had no idea; normally bitter weather had the decency to let up by now. “I like winter, but this is ridiculous.” she muttered as she put extra cheese and four paddies on her bun. Her youngest siblings had a perfect network of tunnels in the huge snowpiles, and all of them went sledding now and then, but the deep snow—waist-deep if you broke through the crust—was making her feel caged. She was right about Brandan. She had managed to finish her burger in peace before he came out with a damp rag and Widex to do the tables, and when he got over to hers she kept her eyes down and put on a forbidding expression. It worked well enough to keep him polishing the same circle of tables over and over while he worked up nerve. “Hey, Lara, um would you—“ “No.” she said without even looking up. “Aw, Lara, you didn’t even hear what I was going to say!” “Whatever you say to me is usually a prelude to asking me out.” she said quietly. “Well, as a matter of fact I was going to ask if you were busy next week—“ “For Valentine’s Day.” she finished. “Look. Brandan, I think it’s time I stopped being polite and had a serious word with you. '' I am not interested.'' I don’t even think I like you. I want to be on good terms with you so I can work in peace in your vicinity, but you’re making it very difficult. So, please, stop asking me out and stick to small talk.” “Um, sure, I mean I don’t want to get on your bad side, but can’t you even give me a chance? I mean, look, is it the way I behave or am I too obnoxious, I mean can you tell me what I could do for you to even consider me?” Lara felt like banging her head on the table. Why did God make guys so dumb? She kept her temper and drew a deep breath. “Look. Can you do me a huge favor, Brandan? If I ask you to do something for me, would you do it?” “I’d do anything.” “Good.” said Lara. “I would really appreciate it if you gave me a little time to myself. Maybe for a couple of months you could just stick to ‘Hi’ and ‘Goodbye” and not try any conversation at all. I’m sure there are other girls who would love having you smile at them. Have you tried asking Heather out?” “Heather? But…” She could see it beginning to sink in. “Yes, Heather. I think she kinda likes you.” “Oh. Never thought about it. But, yeah, I can do what you said. If you’ll…” “No.” she said. “Your best hope with me is to leave me alone for a few months. Can you do that?” “Sure, of course I can.” “Good. Oh, I think I see Eric. You’d better get the other tables before he comes out here.” She smiled with satisfaction at seeing him scoot off at top speed to the unfinished tables. Heather was a little surprised when Lara talked to her. “Brandan? You think he likes me? But I thought he was going after you!” “He was, a little.” said Lara. “But I turned him down for Valentine’s Day so he’s feeling all blue. Be a nice girl and cheer him up, would you, so he’ll get off my back?” “Sure, girl, be glad to.” said Heather. “Nobody’s asked me out for Valentine’s Day yet, and he might even be fun.” “Thank you so much.” smiled Lara. Dark fell and the madness of the supper hour passed. Brandan was throwing French fries at Heather who was returning fire with a vengeance and James was bent over laughing while Lara frantically tried to keep the dirty missiles from landing in the food. Then they finished their shift and the evening crew came in, several young Hispanics who jabbered Spanish most of the time. Lara started the clean-up process and got the trash ready to take to the dumpster. She bundled up for that, even though it was right outside the back door. The dumpster was inside a fenced stockade, open on the drive-thru side, hedged with streetlights. Lara opened the wooden gate and trundled the grey bin over, then threw the bags in. She paused, ignoring the clear icy bite of the air and staring up at the stars. Colder and larger in the clear iron air they seemed, despite the streetlamps scattered over the parking lot. She gazed, entranced, at the blue whiteness of the jewel-like lights. They seized her with unutterable longing and intolerable sorrow, pulsing and flickering. She stepped away from the dumpster. One of the white parking-lot lamps went out. The stars glared even brighter, frozen eyes glittering down on her as she stared up at them, breath wisping and curling about her face and condensing like dew on scarf and eyelids. One group like a diamond-shaped kite with a downward tail pendant from one corner hung right above her, riding up the heavens. More of the lamps went out, and even the lights in the restaurant behind her, so that McDonald’s was plunged in sudden darkness like it was supposed to be, instead of fencing it out frantically like an island of neon white. In the increased clarity she could see that the Kite was the center of something else, a great manlike figure with legs and a belt of three stars and a fuzzy-tipped knife or something hanging downward from his tunic. His arms held a bow—yes, there were the two stars at its’ horns and another where the arrow would nock, and a cluster of several close together to make the arrowhead— “His name is the Herald.” said the man in brown. “I thought that was Orion.” she said dreamily. “Oromë is the Hunter, and he does not walk the skies.” said Brown. “From the first launching of the new Stars the Herald was there, as a sign and foreboding to the end of days. Aever he is called, and Menelmacar '' the Swordsman, and many other names. They will tell you the constellations are random groups of stars, but how does it come they are grouped in such manner?” “The stars they are calling.” murmered Lara. “Who were they? What happened to them?” “That you will not learn until you come to Temple Fell.” answered Brown. Lara started, tearing her eyes from the stars and staring at him. “That’s a real place? Where is it?” ''“I saw a peacock with a fiery tail, '' ''I saw a crimson sky droppit down hail, '' ''I saw a cloud circled with ivy around, '' ''I saw a sturdy oak creep on the ground '' ''I saw a pismire swallow a whale '' ''I saw a raging sea brimful of ale '' ''I saw a Venice glass sixteen foot deep '' ''I saw a well full of men’s tears that weep '' ''I saw their eyes all in a flaming of fire '' ''I saw a Hill big as the Moon and far higher '' ''I saw the Sun in the midst of the night '' ''I saw the man that beheld all this sight.” '' Lara stared with brilliant eyes at the terrible face of the Man in Brown. As his thunderous voice rolled away in the hills, she managed to say, “What is a pismire? And why ivy?” “A pismire is an ant, for they crawl in the mud.” said Brown. “And of old this town was named Ivytown, for the ivies that bury the hills.” “There’s no ivy anywhere except by old houses…unless you mean poison ivy.” “I mean laurel.” said Brown. “Because it often is low and crawling in these lands, men called it ivy. Look to the stars, Lara Midwinter, but do not entirely forget the peril of the ground.” And as he spoke the lights flickered back on and Lara saw with no surprise that the parking lot was empty. She went back in to find everyone in a tizzy over the brief blackout. Fortunately the damage was soon fixed and the machines were back on line, and so the time came when she got out. It turned out there were two more bags to take out and Lara grumbled as she lugged them out the back door. But she froze, when she heard the sound of rustling coming from the dumpster. “I hope it’s not a bear.” she thought, edging over to get a better view. Though if it was a tramp that wasn’t much better; men were more dangerous and unpredictable than any bear. It was a tramp. A tall skinny man in blue jeans was bent over so far as he rummaged inside the side opening that his face was concealed. Lara didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to get him in trouble by telling the manager, and she couldn’t very well let him keep rummaging the trash. As it turned out she didn’t have to worry about interrupting: he turned and saw her. She found she was staring. A wild grey beard sprayed out from a powerful, lined face with blue eyes that gleamed with a sort of innocent brightness. “You—shouldn’t be doing that.” she said awkwardly. The blue eyes lit like a child’s. “But there’s such good ''stuff '' in here!” he said, in a voice that sounded both old and hoarse at the same time. He had a sports jacket of dull green and grey plaid and wore no hat. He held up no less than six wrapped hamburgers she’d somehow not managed to set aside when she emptied the trash. “See! Here’s half a meal already!” “It’s—not healthy.” “Oh come, don’t tell me you don’t secretly pluck these goodies when you have a chance!” he said reprovingly. He rummaged some more. “Look, a whole bunch of cold paddies! Isn’t it wonderful? And here’s half a pie!” “Um, can you please get out of there? I’m afraid you’ll get me in trouble.” “Why, would that be so bad?” he retorted, busily stuffing his thrown-out food into a green cloth bag. “I don’t think I’m allowed to let people rummage through there.” “And I thought you hated your job.” he said, stuffing half a beef wrap that somebody else had started eating, into his bearded mouth. “At least, that’s what your dad tells me.” Lara blinked. “You—know me?” “Yes, but you don’t know me. Not surprising, really. I’m a dirty little secret. Dirty secret. Until I wash my hands, and then I’ll be a clean secret.” He stuffed the bag into a large backpack. “Ask your dad about me sometime. Ask him about your Uncle Peter.” “I guess I will.” said Lara. “You’re not homeless, are you?” “No, no, I sleep down at the Y shelter. While I’m in town. Let me see, you’re the eldest one home?” “Yes, actually I am. Then there’s Lilac…Daniel…” “And the remainder of the Nine.” said Uncle Peter. “When the hundredth year comes, something must be passed to the eldest heir of Midwinter.” “What are you talking about?” said Lara. “Do you mean an inheritance? Or is it some clause of a will or something?” “Oh, you don’t know, then? I’m not surprised. No sir, I’m not surprised at all. Or perhaps I should say No, miss. The eldest Midwinter of my line must give the eldest sister of nine a threefold riddle, and she will know the answer. So my father Heden Midwinter told me as he lay dying, as he passed on the watch that is our heritage.” He pulled out an old pocketwatch, antique and intricate. It was ticking loudly. He slipped it back. His face seemed to freeze, the half-childish brightness draining out of it. He drew himself up and a mantle of authority and dignity seemed to be pulled about him. His face was like hewn stone, his eyes austere as ice. “Are you ready to hear the first riddle, Lara eldest of Nine of the house of Midwinter?” His voice had changed too: it rang like that of Brown. “I am.” said Lara. Her own spine seemed to stiffen itself. She met his remote stare with hers. “Then say I, Peter son of Heden who lived to greet the Road, eldest of the house of Midwinter at one hundred years and four, the first riddle of three: '' “What is the sign of the head of the Herald?” Lara stared at him, cold washing through her. “I will return to you on the third night from now and receive then your answer. If you cannot answer, then both of us will die, and the line of Midwinter will perish.” Quite abruptly the cloak of power evaporated. The tall man drooped and his bright old-man eagerness returned to his blue eyes. “Well, that’s that!” he said cheerfully. “And now I’ll head off to someplace out of the wind, like the library doorway, and have a feast. Well, goodbye Lara, and give my best to your Dad!” “Are you really a hundred and four?” she said curiously. “I must say, you don’t look it.” “Yes, the men of my side of the family age well.” Uncle Peter chuckled, fitting on his backpack. “You said we would die. What do you mean?” “I mean what I mean when I said I would mean.” the old man cackled and strode off into the night. “The Herald.” muttered Lara. She turned around and looked up at the sky, but clouds had covered the stars and the archer was concealed. When she got home she headed to the living room where her dad was reading a police brochure he was going to distribute to his staff. He served as police captain in Barkhamsted. “Dad, who is Uncle Pete?” Mr. Midwinter looked up. “Pete? Oh no. Where did you see him?” “Just answer me. Who is he?” “He’s actually your great-great-uncle or something. Where did you meet him?” Lara gave a frustrated sigh. “When I got out of work. Now, who is he? And why have I never heard about him?” Mrs. Midwinter came in at this moment and beckoned Lara into the kitchen. “Don’t bother your dad right now.” she said. Lara sat down and folded her arms, arching her eyebrows. “Do you know Uncle Pete, Mom?” Mrs. Midwinter’s eyes were the same blank blue as ever behind her glasses, but there was a frightening appearance about them now. Lara had only seen her mom like this when she was angry about something. “Your father’s family has an odd sort of streak on one side. Some kind of insanity, or something. Sometimes they just become harmless eccentrics, but once or twice they’ve gotten dangerous. It seems to affect the eldest son of the previous eccentric, every time.” “So Uncle Peter is—not all there?” “He’s a tramp!” hissed Mrs. Midwinter. “He never works, except now and again to get money when his cans don’t net him enough. He raids dumpsters and eats out of the garbage. He camps in the woods, and in winter he goes to shelters.” “Is he really a hundred and four?” Mrs. Midwinter nodded. “But don’t be fooled. The ones who suffer from this—mad streak—are very vigorous and often live past a hundred and twenty. Pete’s father Heden, from what I heard, had Pete when he was '' a hundred and one!'' Look, honey, he may seem harmless, but I really don’t want you talking to him. You don’t want your father to have him arrested, do you?” “He said that he had a threefold riddle he had to pass to me.” “Oh, not that nonsense!” Mrs. Midwinter exclaimed. “Pete goes on about that every time we run into him. He won’t tell us what they’re about, because it’s never the right year for it, but he insists it’s some crazy family tradition. I hope you didn’t mention that to your father!” Mr. Midwinter insisted on driving Lara to work the next day. He refused to talk about his disreputable uncle, other than to sternly forbid Lara to talk or even go near him. “You do believe in a parent’s authority, don’t you?” “Within reason.” said Lara. “You can’t force me to do wrong, you know. But anything else, I have to obey you.” “Then you are not allowed to talk to him. Period.” She hoped her strange relative would have the sense to stay away for a little while, and it seemed he did, for she saw no sign of him. The clouds remained, and it was actually a little warmer as well. Lara looked up hopefully at the evening sky when she got out of work, but only a few drifting snowflakes met her eyes. The next day—despite the weatherman saying it would be in the 30s—it flurried off and on far into the night, and it was cold. The third day came with breaks in the clouds and a bleak wind coming cold out of the south-west, and Lara had the evening shift. Dark fell, and she got the trash ready with some trepidation. Brandan tried to be a gentleman and get it for her until she snapped his head off and he retired offended to continue bantering with Heather. She opened the back door and looked hopefully up. Stars showed fitfully through ragged gaps in the purple-grey clouds, but pinpointing the Herald was impossible. Her dad was out there in the station wagon, half an hour early, hopefully with the heater on. She opened the fence and started heaving in bags. “Psst! Lara, don’t look over. I’m behind the dumpster. Your dad’s kind of staking you out, so be careful.” “Uncle Peter, you better get out of here fast.” said Lara. “Do you have the answer?” “I’m not allowed to talk to you, Uncle. Period. Dad really put his foot down.” There was a chuckle from behind the dumpster. “Did he now. Pity he’s a cop; they have to stare at the ground so often they forget what up means. Can you give me his exact words.” Lara heaved in another bag as she thought. “He got really formal. Something like ‘I forbid you from any communication in any form with your Uncle Peter.” “Dennis may despise the tradition, but he certainly plays by its’ rules.” muttered the voice behind the dumpster. “That counts, I guess, as being unable to answer, and with these clouds you couldn’t have in any case. We have another three days. I will find you then, and even if you can’t communicate with me, find the answer. Our lives depend on it.” Lara was about to demand an explanation of this, but a glance at her dad’s car showed he was getting ready to come see what was taking her so long, and she hastily dumped the last bag and headed inside. The next three days were intermittently cloudy. Lara was anxious. Then in the evening, as she was getting ready to punch out, the sky cleared as if someone had swept it with an enormous broom, and blue moonlight flooded the white forest. James had beaten her to the trash, to her frustration, but Dad had finally let her drive in by herself. She headed out to the car and glanced quickly around the dark-blue, icelike heaven. Near the waxing moon few stars appeared, but upon his back the Herald lay some way to the east of the moon, well above the horizon. She stared hard. There was his bow—so that had to be a hand and an elbow—but where the head should be, the sky was empty. No stars. Uncle Pete rose up from behind a parked car. From the red and runny look of his nose he’d been outside most of the day. A scarf was pulled over his mouth, white with ice. “Do you have the answer?” he said. Before Lara could speak, Mr. Midwinter came galloping from another car she hadn’t noticed, and got between them. “Lara, get in the car.” he said. “Let me handle this.” “Dad, please. It’s all right.” “No, it is not all right. I warned you this morning, Peter: stay away from my daughter. If you don’t turn around and leave, right now, I’ll haul you in for criminal trespass on restaurant property, and file a harassment complaint as well.” “Ah, you think you can somehow single-handedly stifle me from passing on her inheritance, Dennis? The Road is mightier than you are.” “You have till the count of three. Onetwothree!” Uncle Peter paid him no heed. He was staring into Lara’s eyes. “Do as you wish, nephew,” he said, “but she knows the answer to the first riddle.” Mr. Midwinter took a single stride right up to him. “I told you a hundred times I don’t hold with your superstition. I gave you your warning. Now you’re under arrest, and it is my duty to…” “Please, Dennis,” the old man said gently, “Unsay that. Stand aside. Release the chains you put on your daughter. You are messing with powers you cannot comprehend.” Dennis Midwinter pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Peter Midwinter whirled and ran. Dennis Midwinter gave chase. To her dismay Lara saw he was drawing his handgun. “Freeze! Stop right now or I’m shooting!” Peter Midwinter stopped in his tracks. Lara watched in stunned dismay as her dad put the handcuffs on the old man’s wrists and marched him over to the unmarked police car that was parked in the gas station next door. It was like watching a movie where everything was going wrong and she couldn’t stop it, any more than a movie. Dejectedly she got in her car and drove home. The guard room at the front of police headquarters at the county jail was dull and felt closed and stale. Officer Mac Byron yawned and put his feet on the desk; partly to stretch and partly to annoy his partner who was doing paperwork. Bernie Keegan loved reports and was up to his nose in one regarding the new bird in Cell Nine. Some kind of harassment complaint, charges of criminal trespass filed by the bird’s own nephew. Pete Midwinter had been in here before, mostly for criminal trespass; being a repeat offender he might very well not be going home for a while. Byron considered him harmless, but Captain Midwinter had connections. At least he’d have a warm bed and meals; being homeless he probably didn’t get either as often as he should. “Bernie, don’t you ever get the urge to go home?” “Naw, our shift don’t end for another hour and it’s only 10 PM.” Bernie said absently. Then he looked up and stared at his partner’s feet pointedly. “Just need to relax.” Byron mumbled. “You know Dennis was grouching about the scuff marks on your desk.” reminded Bernie. The door at the end of the corridor gave a queer sound and then opened. Byron swung his feet down with some interest, and even Bernie looked up. Both of them stared with bulging eyes. The fantastic triangular coat—no, cloak; it didn’t have sleeves—its’ margin tattered, the wild black hair, long and streaming about face and shoulders, an equally long and wild beard upon his chest, of the towering figure that stood in the hall, was enough to make anyone stare. Under the huge icy cloak he wore an old coat and blue jeans. His eyes were brown as earth, of a startling deep brightness. The uncouth figure paused at the open glass window. Bernie was there already: good, dependable Bernie, you didn’t need to tell him what to do. Byron eased out the side door into the connecting passage and held its’ door ajar, ready to spring from behind it if the wild figure needed subduing. “Can I help you, sir?” said Bernie in the inimitable cop manner, that makes the words sound more like a challenge than a genuine wish to help. “I’m here to see Peter Midwinter.” the weird figure said. He had a voice as rough and uncouth as his appearance; it was like hearing the ground speak. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid access to Mr. Midwinter has been blocked until further notice while the captain is looking into his case. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” “Are you denying him from me?” the rough stranger said in a deep growl. “You’re an extremely suspicious character, sir, and in any case visiting hours have been over for some time. Now, I’ll ask you once more to leave, or you will be forcibly escorted outside.” At this juncture Byron came smoothly out from concealment and got between the stranger and the door to the cells, folding his arms and looking big and intimidating. And he was plenty of both. “Take me to Peter Midwinter.” the stranger said to Byron. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve been asked to leave and we’ll have to escort you out.” said Byron. He grabbed the stranger’s upper arm in a practiced manner, pinching a nerve that he knew would make it hard for that arm to move quickly, and began to march him back up the corridor. It was like trying to uproot a tree. “I have asked you twice to take me to Midwinter. I ask you a third time. I ask no farther.” Byron pulled harder. “Come along, mister! Bernie, can you get out here? F-- you, stir your f—ing stumps!” The stranger’s arm moved, ignoring the nerve pinch. One great hand fastened upon Byron’s throat. Slowly that one hand, without apparent effort, began to rise, and Byron rose with it, his feet dangling, choking as he scrabbled at the massive arm. “I told him and I told him, the rules never work, but does he listen? Nooo. I’m supposed to give you every chance, he says. Well, three chances is enough for anyone. Where is Midwinter?” “F— you.” gasped Byron. Bernie, coming through the door, froze for a split second, and in that second the stranger hurled Byron with such tremendous force into the window that the bulletproof glass crunched and broke, and he sagged onto the file cabinets inside. Bernie was shooting now, but the stranger lifted one hand and what seemed like a shield made entirely of dirt sprouted around it like a flash. He could see the bullets embedding in it as they fired. “''What are you?” gasped Bernie, lowering his empty gun. The terrible eyes burned brown above the rim. ''“I am the Wild Man of Winsted.” He launched a spray of earth into Bernie’s face. Screaming, clawing at his eyes, Bernie was dimly aware he had dropped the gun. Turning, the Wild Man strode toward the door leading to the cells. Red lights flashed and buzzers flared. Byron had managed to trigger the alarms. The wild figure tugged at the door, then ripped it off its’ hinges. Byron’s voice was sounding over the intercom now. “Security breach! Two men down! Suspect making for Cell Nine! He is unarmed but extremely dangerous! Backup! We need backup!” '' Policemen scrambled down the halls. They were in time to see the billowing cloak of the intruder disappear around the corner, but when they tried to follow him they found it blocked with a wall of hard-packed earth. Shooting it made no impression. They hurried off to find another way. The uncouth figure strode down the corridor. Faces pressed against barred windows. His grim brown eyes surveyed each cell in turn. Pausing outside Cell Nine he tore the door in half. Peter Midwinter, in an orange prison suit, looked up from his cot. The wild fantastic figure filled the cell with his flying black hair and enormous cloak. The old man shrank against the wall. “We were unable to answer.” he said. Terrible brown eyes burned into his. “That does not matter right now.” “What do you want with me?” Peter murmered. “I cannot pass her the Lore. Are you my death?” The Wild Man of Winsted roared with laughter. “On the contrary, I am your salvation. You are a servant of the Road, and it will not be gainsaid. I’m here to free you.” “They’ll just arrest me again.” The Wild Man waved one hand dismissively. “Leave that to Arheled.” Fear filled the eyes of Peter Midwinter. “I knew this was the year. Is he here already?” “He has been calling for some time.” said the Wild Man. “Come. Let’s get you out of here.” No one was guarding the blocked way, and the Wild Man walked through the earth even as it vanished. Once or twice police raced by, but nobody seemed to see them. Then they passed the guardroom the Wild Man suddenly stopped and then headed within. Peter made to follow but a terrible glance from his rescuer froze him to his place. Who was in there he could not see, but he could hear. “I have him, my lord.” said the rough voice of the Wild Man. “As always, you seem to favor a sledgehammer when a hedgetrimmer was required.” said a low quiet voice, peaceful but filled with power. “These people try my patience sorely. I played the rules. What complaint can you make?” “You managed to set off alerts to every unit in NW Connecticut.” the second voice said with a deadly quietness. “You implicated irretrievably the very man you rescued. And the charges filed by Captain Midwinter—and, most importantly, the binding he laid on Lara—still stand.” “I say we torture Midwinter until he releases her, then! He has already incurred the Road against him. And you know what penalty the Road exacts.” “But I walk the Road.” said the voice of Arheled. “And I know he acts not from malice but from love. Wherefore he merits not the penalty, and I will not suffer it to fall unmerited.” “Yes, my lord.” the Wild Man sighed. “These are hard days.” Arheled said gently. “We are bound at every turn by our own hands, while our enemies hunt as they wish. None but the dragon-spell could have so infected Midwinter with stubbornness. But I will walk in his dreams tonight, and I will frighten him so dreadfully he will be shaken into reason.” “Ah, now you sound like the lord that I serve!” growled the Wild Man in satisfaction. “Take Peter to his shelter. I will speak to their machines and walk in many minds until all are convinced that terrorists came here.” said Arheled. “May the Road rise to meet you.” “And the wind be always at your back.” responded the Wild Man. He came back out of the office and took Peter’s hand. They took a single step, and Peter found himself, wearing his old clothes, inside the Y shelter’s typical bedroom. “Until later, Midwinter.” said the Wild Man of Winsted, and turning he was swallowed by the night. Lara first heard about it when her dad got the call. “There’s been a '' what?!...How many injured? What was the target?” He kept barking questions as he threw on his coat. “Dad! '' What’s happening?!” “Terrorists attacked the Barkhamsted jail.” said Mr. Midwinter. “Nobody seems to have been killed, but about three prisoners are missing, including our crazy uncle.” He rushed out the door and was gone. It was soon on the news. After flicking from channel to channel, the Midwinters finally gathered that the prison had been penetrated by unknown individuals who smashed through the checkpoint and blew open several doors, and were apparently able to hack the security cameras and erase all pertinent footage. The guardsroom officers had been injured and were babbling wild tales of a fantastic ragged man in a huge cape who wielded earth powers and could stop bullets. The on-duty staff had “scrambled” in record time but found the intruders—and three prisoners—already gone. Two of the escapees had been picked up not far away, but the third—whose name had not been released—was still at large. A cold feeling crawled up Lara’s spine as she listened. Earth powers. Stop bullets. Uncle Peter had hinted at mysterious powers that governed this whole thing, like some terrible ritual where the slightest misstep could cause the more insane destruction. And Dad was deliberately misstepping. “But I know the answer.” she whispered. “Forest, honey, it’s time to get up!” called Mrs. Lake. Her voice sounded almost forced these days, as if she was trying to pretend things were the same as ever, or as if she was a little afraid of him. He sat down at the table and poured out some cereal, trying to fasten his last dream into his mind. The Sun and the Moon had joined hands in the sky and swirled as they danced in spirals of bright fire. There was something else, too, a maiden whose bare limbs flashed so bright a gold she could scarcely be looked at, walking amid a silver world of frost and dew that steamed at her passing, and hand in hand with her a man all of hoar and silver light. Then the Sun and Moon spinning in their crazy dance, and spinning off from them were nine stars brighter than the rest, the planets themselves. “The snow on the roof is dreadful.” said Mrs. Lake as she made some cocoa for Forest. “I might have to ask Cornello if he can…if he knows someone who can.” she emended hastily when Forest looked up and met her eyes. “Have you been with him since?” Forest surprised himself by saying. She shook her head, looking almost haunted. “But, Forest, it’s not like I married your father in the first place…” Forest was amazed how level and flat his voice was. “I know you didn’t.” he said. “I know that I am bastard, a misbegotten son of a shack-up. I know you drove my father out.” Mrs. Lake only stared at him, timidly, as if he was some kind of monster. “It wasn’t…quite like that…” she whispered. Forest stared at her, steadily, unwavering. Mrs. Lake could bear it no longer. “Forest…” Forest dropped his eyes. He hated this. He hated having to act like this with his own mom. “I refused to curse you in my dream.” he said. “Forest,” Mrs. Lake whispered, “can you forgive me?” “When my father comes back.” said Forest, picking up his bowl. “Not before.” He turned when he was at the door, and his face crumpled as he looked at her. Tears boiled in his eyes. “How could you do this to me?” he choked, and ran. He ate his cereal upstairs. Part of him desperately longed to make it all right with her, to go on as they always had and not to cause trouble, but he knew he couldn’t, he daren’t back down if he was to make things right. She had to make the first move. She had repented; but not yet atoned. The doorbell rang. Forest and Mrs. Lake raced to get there first and almost collided, and the laughter they shared over the mishap eased both of their hearts. “Perhaps this is not a good time.” said the man in brown. “Oh—no, actually it’s not like—“ Mrs. Lake stammered, laughing. “I wondered if you’d let me shovel your roof.” he said. “Certainly.” said Forest. “And if you get tired Mom’ll have hot chocolate ready.” “But you’ve got to get ready for school, honey!” exclaimed Mrs. Lake. “School’s out all week while they clear roofs.” chuckled the man in brown. “It was in today’s paper.” “Oh, I haven’t got it in yet. Forest, sweetie, would you be a dear and run out to—“ “I picked it up on the way in.” said Brown, holding out the bagged Register Citizen. “Why, thank you so much, Mr. Brown! I’ll have to be going to work soon, but Forest can pay you.” She paused. “No, I’m not homeless.” the man in brown said gently. “I have a house some ways north of here. It’s just an off season, is all.” “And what do you do, regularly?” asked Mrs. Lake. The Man in brown had a faint twinkle in his eyes. “I’m a bit of a groundskeeper and road-warden. For one of the cemetaries.” “Ohhh.” said Mrs. Lake. Evidently this seemed more respectable in her eyes than a homeless man doing odd jobs. “Well, the ladders are up by the back, but they’re kind of buried.” “Thank you, ma’am! You have a good day at you job!” called Brown as he headed around in back. Mrs. Lake got ready for work—in rather a hurry, Forest thought. He caught her as she went out the door. “Mom? Be safe.” he said. Mrs. Lake’s eyes suddenly sprang with tears. She wrapped Forest in a hug and kissed him, and then rushed out to the car. When Forest bundled up and went outside to help, the man in brown was already clearing the steep bottom roof where it met the ground. It was growing warm and there was a delectable scent of newness, of melting and wet bark and snow. Forest grinned. “You and your mom at some kind of understanding?” Brown grunted as he pulled down snow. “We—know where we stand.” “You are strong.” Brown said approvingly. “You haven’t backed down, but you let her know you love her. Good. How are the Stars?” “Nearly done.” Brown nodded. “I’ve seen your father around town. Tell me, what did you see last night?” Forest thought hard, pushing through all the jumbled images. “The Sun and Moon danced.” he said. Brown went up on the roof and began to clear the flatter tops, and Forest climbed up after him. They worked in silence for a while. Hat and coat were soon thrown aside, and Forest in his grey sweater and Brown in his odd stained flannel plaid shirt plowed and chopped and cleared. “It was the beginning of the end.” Brown said suddenly. “The first sign that not even the heavens were to be free of strife.” “What was?” “The romance of the Sun and Moon.” answered Brown. He leaned on his shovel. Forest, glad to stop, squatted on his boots as they looked out over the white island, joined to the white lake. Patches of dark slush were appearing on the deep snowbound ice. “Why is my island girded with spruce?” Forest said. “You need not fear them.” Brown answered. “They do not stand with their brethren. To guard this island is their only purpose, and they own no lord but the big oak by your window.” “Today’s Valentine’s Day.” said Forest. “And aren’t you glad to be out of school and away from mush-headed ''dirlas!” laughed Brown. Forest gave a half smile. “Not that they would see you anyway, Forest. Love is a strange and terrible thing; it will make men put those they love through agony in order to make them perfect; it can betray plans and destroy lives and souls, and undo even the heavens themselves.” “The heavens are dead.” “Now they are, yes. And who can tell, if the Nine Planets had never come into being, perhaps the ancient stars would still sing their haunting melodies in peace in the high airs and the foments of the heavens would never come to pass. And maybe if they had not sparked it, something else would, and the modern skies have come to pass by one means or another. Can you imagine the scientists learning power from the Stars, or the engines of men intruding into the crystal spheres? Perhaps it was fated that the modern space would come about, for the confoundation of the gods of the computers and the telescopes.” “But I thought the Sun and Moon were steered by—“ “Urwendi steered the Sun, that maiden most glorious.” Brown replied. “But Silmo bore up the Moon, for it was heavier and less buoyant, and he strove to follow Urwendi and could not, and so the Gods gave him a slower course, that he might at times come near enough to share her smile in the skies. For in the time before the Sun and Moon he had loved her from a distance as she stood laughing in the hot rain of burning light that fell from the Tree of Gold, but he was of the shadowy folk of the Dreamweaver and the Tree of Silver was his delight. And when she and her maidens entered the vats of boiling light to burn the earthliness from the bodies that they wore, they came out glistening with gold light, and light flashed and dripped from their limbs, and no cloth might abide upon their glorious bodies.” He sat down on his haunches next to Forest. The sound of dripping snow, the voices of ice fishers, the occasional piping of a sparrow came up to them from around. “I thought the Gods were spirits.” “They are.” answered Brown. “But they are bound to the World, for they chose to enter it and guide it, and so they must put on raiment of flesh over their spirits if they would have power over the matter that they love. They may cast this off and go unclad, if they wish, or they may for some great reason thicken this raiment until it becomes as physical as yours: an incarnation, an imitation and likeness to that supreme and utter Incarnation of the Lord Himself. It is said that these incarnations were even capable of physical generation and bearing of children, yet this has happened only twice in the entire world, once on the Earth and once in the heavens.” Forest was silent with sheer awe. “So the Sun was espoused to the Moon, and those two great lights floated together in the skies while the Stars rejoiced around them; and astrologers upon the earth were thrown into vast confusion. And the love between the Sun and Moon was very great, and the Sun gave birth and brought forth nine children, the Nine Planets of the ancient skies: Hormo the swift, and Charosa the lovely, Barvast the warlike whose hair and face glowed red, Angar the dark, Drëdo the masterful and leader of the Nine, Gentos the reckoner, and the three cold brothers, Üra the raw, and Doldûn the cold, and Lundno the silent. Begotten of both Moon and Sun, they blazed greater than the other Stars, and were held as lords among them, and walked fixed courses that differed from the others, more like to their mighty parents: for they were not Stars in their blood, but divine.” “I thought Earth was the ninth planet.” “It was never a planet until after the Stars rebelled.” Brown answered. “There were ten planets then. Until Angar was shattered. But that is a different tale.” Mr. Midwinter was having his hands full with this bunch. The beach was warm, blue and tan with sand and sky, and the busful of kids he was shepherding were acting all rowdy and goofy. Gina wore a golden bikini that showed her brown body nicely, and it was amusing hearing her say in her Spanish accent “Nobody splash me until I jump in!” '' '' The kids were scrambling up past an ancient place, a sort of ruin; old concrete ledges crumbling away leaned over the trail. There were arched cavernous vaults underneath, concrete tunnels in a dark dirty network going far under the hill. The floor was earth mould from ages of blown-in leaves. Dennis Midwinter touched the wall and shards broke off like sand. '' '' “Some stonemason will be in big trouble in a few years,” he said to one of the counselors, running his hand over several dangerous-looking cracks. '' '' There was a shifting. The cracks grew. Walls and roof began to groan. The place was starting to collapse. '' '' “…correction, now.” he added. '' '' Reality seemed to blur around him as he hurried about, marshaling scared kids. “Move!” he yelled. “Hurry. Here, over this way. Keep moving.” as they filed up out of the entrance. Kids were still hurrying around in every direction. Big pieces of rubble were thudding down on all sides. He headed farther back to check for stragglers, as above him the roof creaked and softened. '' '' Then it was that it began to close down upon him, the strange fear, the slow dawn of terror. One of the counselors, a middle-aged woman, came out from farther back, and she hunched along crouched as if injured and held her arms to her sides, and blood was on her hands. “They’re here.” she groaned. “They’re coming.” '' '' He hurried farther back. It was not quite dark. Light glowered from a distance, but it was not daylight. Then the horror dawned at last. Then he knew. '' '' There were people in those caves. '' '' They were not people. '' '' Scurrying up the passage toward him, the yellowish cave-light behind it, he saw…a man all twisted, hobbling furiously, and he was—he was not human, not as we mean human, he was sort of the focal point of vast realm beyond realm of something that Dennis could not see, could not sense but knew was there, something utterly and indefinably horrible. The cave was blurring around the twisted one, vague and wavery, seeming to move back and forward as if sight itself was twisting. Evil blurred the walls around him. Fear was in Dennis, cold helpless borne down caught, it had found him, horrible was coming and had him. '' '' Dennis turned and stumbled back toward the children, and something drew his eyes to the left, and there was a cat not a cat, the very sight and shape of which, like the man all twisted, made the soul shrink and cry for it was not natural, it was horrible. “Oh God. Oh God.” he said over and over. He was breathing violently, he found it hard to breathe, his heart jerked and shook, he was cold, he was filled with helpless fear. He heard himself feebly urging the kids to get out, and then he came awake, and fear was still on him. '' Dennis Midwinter sat upright in his bed. No, not his bed—he had dozed off in the lounge while putting in a long night. “Get some rest.” the chief had said. He was dead tired and barely able to keep his eyes open, but he could not close them, he dared not, for he knew that if he went back to sleep, the dream was still there, and he would find him there, the twisted one, waiting for him. Yet do what he would his eyes sealed shut and with absolute terror he felt his mind spiral straight back down toward that dream. Yet not into it. Something was guiding him, steering him away from the crumbling caves and the waiting evil, and he felt someone’s hand pulling his. Uncle Peter had him safely, and Dennis felt an irrational small-boy delight, as if in his terror he had again become a child. “Run! This way, my boy! We’ll beat him yet!” the crazy old man was holloring. Yet somehow Dennis knew with a deep absolute certainty that his uncle was good, it was safe beside him, he was trustable. Behind them were the wavering caves. Fear beat upon the back of Dennis’ neck, and Lara was gasping for breath and stumbling, and he tried to tell her they couldn’t stop now, because she had frozen in place. “What’s wrong with her?” yelled Dennis. “''She bears the chains of another.” murmered Uncle Peter. Alarmed, Dennis saw that chains were wound about Lara, holding her down, she could not run. Yellow light glowed behind them. He heard though he could not see, the footsteps of uncountable hosts of the damned. He hauled at the chains but they would not come off. '' “You put those chains upon her and we cannot flee now.”'' said the old man. Dennis Midwinter collapsed on the ground and screamed. He got off the floor where he had rolled off the lounge chairs. The dream was gripping him so hard he raced down the dull corridors, shouting for Lara. He caught himself as it began to dawn on him, with incredible relief, that he was awake. He staggered to his desk, still shaking. Cold fear was still upon him. He mopped sweat from his brow. Why had he felt so incredibly sure that Uncle Peter was safe, was the only one who could save him? And those chains… Mr. Midwinter buried his face in his hands and groaned. Lara heard the phone ringing out in the hall. It was 5 in the morning and she hadn’t been able to get to sleep again. Hurrying from her room she caught it on the third ring. “Hello?” “Um, who’s this, Lara?” It was her dad’s voice. “Dad! We’ve been wondering how you were doing.” “Yeah, um, I’m glad you answered.” Big pause. “I’ve been wrong about Uncle Peter. I withdrew the charges. He’s got a clean slate cause I torched his file. He’s free.” “What…was the reason?” “I had a nightmare. It’s a little hard to explain, but he was there and—I guess I just saw him as he really is for the first time. Oh, and Lara, you’re free to talk to him.” He drew a shaky breath. “I don’t know what was wrong with me. It was like I was insane, blind or something. I owe him a big apology.” Lara hung up the phone, a confused sense of relief dawning inside her. It was all right. Dad wasn’t in the wrong. She had to find Uncle Peter. Glancing out one of the windows at the thermometer, she shivered. Yesterday had been wonderfully balmy, but now it was 10° out. And windy. She fixed herself some breakfast and ate dry cereal thoughtfully. Looking out the window again she noticed the sky had no clouds. It was only 5:30 and not even blue out, though the east was paling. Abruptly she put down her spoon and began bundling up. Even though Orion or the Herald or whatever he was had probably long since set. The wind had fallen for a moment when she stepped outside, but she heard it moaning far off in the mountains, a steady deep sound like a rushing horn. Snow that had been melting yesterday was hard and glassy under her boots. Sure enough, the Herald was nowhere to be seen. “I thought you’d be up and about.” said a voice from the driveway. “Relax, lass, it’s Uncle Peter. And no, I haven’t come to raid your garbage.” “Dad dropped the charges!” said Lara. “Did you hear?” “Yes, I did.” the old man said enigmatically. His eyes wandered toward the brimming trash can. “Oooh! Garbage!” “Oh, stop it, Uncle.” laughed Lara. “But it looks like it’s brimming with possibilities! Thrown-out ends of loaves! Uneaten chicken legs! There might even be unscraped jelly jars!” “Sorrrrry.” said Lara. “Around here, we not only scrape the jars, the little kids lick them.” “Ohhh.” muttered the eccentric. “I notice you’re talking to me. Are you still chained?” “No, Dad says it’s perfectly all right. He also wants to tell you that he was wrong about you and owes you an apology.” “Then tell him it is already accepted.” said Uncle Peter, waving one hand grandly. “So, tell me, Lara. Have you found the answer?” “Yes, I know what it is.” said Lara. Peter Midwinter seemed to grow taller, although in the dimness she could only see his shape against the pale snow. Even masked by twilight she felt the power and authority he had drawn about him like a cloak. His voice came deeper and as powerful as the distant wind. '' “What is the sign of the head of the Herald?” '' Lara felt answering power tingle through her as she spoke. '' “The head of the Herald is hidden from view.” '' “You have answered rightly.” the voice of her ancient uncle sounded. “Now say I, Peter son of Heden who passed the lore to me, eldest of the house of Midwinter at one hundred years and four, the second riddle of three: '' “Where aims the point of the arrow of the Herald? '' “I will return to you on the third night from now and receive then your answer. If you are unable to answer, three nights more have you. If you cannot answer, then both of us will die.” “Don’t worry, Uncle, I’ll have the answer.” said Lara. “Splendid, splendid.” the old man said in his usual sprightly manner. You wouldn’t have a sandwich for me, maybe? I’ve had a long walk.” “I’m due for the morning shift at 7.” said Lara. “Here, wait in the garage. I’ll give you a lift into town and get there early.” She quickly warmed up one of the Styrofoam Instant Chicken Soup cups her family favored and made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich as well. Then she took a volume of St. Thomas Aquinas she’d been meaning to get to and headed out to the car. Once the heater got going it would be warm enough. In the meantime Uncle Peter was very glad of the soup. “So, how’d you get out of jail?” she said. “We heard it was terrorists.” She stole a sidelong glance at his bearded face. The headlights made the pine forest stand out in sharp contrast, like cutouts, as they drove up the long hill out of Riverton. She still didn’t feel exactly comfortable near him, he looked so bearded and eccentric and unsafe. Even though she felt he was basically trusty. “I was—pulled out.” he said. “Yes, but who did it? And why?” “When you serve the Road, it does not brook dissent.” he answered at last. “They came for me.” Lara felt an icy tingle creep up her legs. “Who did?” “The Wild Man of Winsted.” They said no more for a short time, as there was black ice on the road and Lara suddenly had to concentrate. She knew the legend of the Wild Man; Ronnie had told her once, but the image of a hairy naked caveman busting into a jail with earth powers just didn’t jibe. “What did he look like?” “Ah, you believe me!” laughed Uncle Peter. He drained his soup and started on the sandwich. “He wore—I think he had jeans and a sports jacket, but over that he wore a huge ragged cape. And yes, he had black hair. Black beard, too, and very frightening brown eyes. If Arheled wasn’t here I would—well, it wouldn’t be very safe around him. He seems to command earth.” “Arheled.” she repeated. “Who is Arheled?” “Oh, you’ll know soon enough.” Uncle Peter said darkly. He bit down with gusto. “Uncle,” she said after a while, when they were at the traffic light at Nelson’s Corners, “have you ever heard of Temple Fell?” Uncle Peter choked and spent the next minute coughing up sandwich. “He hasn’t told you about it yet?” Lara forgot to look at the road and stared at him. “He?” The old man flapped his hand. “Yes, he.” he said impatiently. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been talking with mysterious strangers. I know you’ve been called. Midwinter for the Stars, and Lane for the Road. But yes, I know of Temple Fell.” “Where is it?” “Up north of Little Pond. Above Rugg Brook Lake. And I’m not any too certain I’m supposed to be the one who tells you. You have to find it on your own, I hear; but then, I was only four when the last time happened. Not always the Midwinter who receives the Lore is the one called. Sometimes they just end up giving the right information to the one called. I guess it depends on who answers.” “But do you know what it is?” “It’s a fell.” he answered testily. “Plenty of fells up here. You know, as in—“ “—rounded lumpy mountains.” she finished. “Yes. I read old books.” They reached Winsted and she drove up Main Street to the YMCA. “Thanks for what little you were allowed to tell, Uncle.” “You’re welcome, lass.” he answered brightly as he unfolded himself from the car. “And I must say, it’s a pleasure to have such a charming niece. Thanks so much for the grub!” She laughed as she closed the door. She could hardly wait for the stars to appear. As it turned out the mountain blocked the view east, so she tramped down the down lane and through Riverton centre, across the bridge, up till she reached the fairgrounds. The snow in the broad field was crusted hard enough to support her, although she did break through occasionally. Looking up she glanced around to see where the Herald was. Sure enough he was just striding up the sky, on his back, and the clustered stars that formed the arrow-point were easy to make out. She noted the angle it formed relative to the bow, and the body; if the Herald stood upright he would be shooting about 45 degrees upward, not level. She held one gloved finger outward, tracing an arc overhead, following the line of the arrow. The first thing in the path was the Milky Way. The irregular ragged band of paleness crossed at an angle. What an odd shape it had. There was a gap in it, and a back-curving arm, like a head…and there was another arm a little lower, two in fact opposite each other…then it branched as it descended to the horizon, like…in fact, exactly like a tropical fish with long, trailing fins. She traced the arrow-path again. Two bright stars, one right in the fish-Milky-Way, the second at the head of a wiggling line of stars. Both pointed across the dome of the sky—Lara turned to the left—right to the Little Dipper. No, that wasn’t right; the Dipper was out of the way. The tail of it wasn’t, though… Her eyes widened as she realized the answer to the second riddle.